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by melpomenae



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Backstory, Canon-Typical Violence, Cassian Andor-centric, Gen, Pre-Canon, Pre-Rogue One, War, i would die for this man a hundred times over
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 07:23:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17320547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melpomenae/pseuds/melpomenae
Summary: "I've been in this fight since I was six years old."-For Cassian Andor, the best and obedient member of a fledgling Rebellion. He counts each of those twenty years like it is his last, from the day he ran away to the day the Death Star gave him one last sunset.A Cassian-centric story focusing on his childhood and years growing up to who we first see in the streets of an old trading outpost. In short, fragmented chapters for each of those years.





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**Author's Note:**

> I am my own beta for my works, so many errors concerning grammar, spelling, etc. will more than likely be present. I am also not as familiar with sources outside of the movie, so any conflict with those stories may show up frequently. Hope you enjoy, and let me know what you think!

He is five. The Republic isn’t.

In his mind, he has the perfect dream:

Crowds rushing on to the streets, tears and smiles and cries all at once, looking at the sun that finally broke free from the Festian horizon-schools would be closed as students sang and teachers rejoiced, boots clapping across the cobblestone. The Republic flag that used to flutter so easily in the wind is tattered and shredded, burnt to the crisp with its ashes insignificant and dust to be blown back in the faces of those greedy, champagne-loving, credit-stealing Core senators.

And him, holding the Separatist flag and his mother’s hand in the other, skipping out from their crumbling home steps and triumphantly into the market square.

It is strange.

The streets look as if bombarded by Republic warships. Homes are dark with shutters and windows and curtains drawn, seeking no refuge in the perpetually and especially cloudy sky. Classmates sullenly trudge through the mud, teachers wordlessly awaiting in their empty classrooms. Shopkeepers and bartenders lull in their duties as if frozen in time. The Republic flag doesn’t even flutter; it flies defiantly as if to look down on its crushed victims and loudly declare freedom in history isn’t something to be handed over so easily.

And him, holding a dish of grainy breakfast and his gaze on his mother, who left the pot to boil and hiss over the stove, who barely made a brush of sound as she stared at some distant fixture out their similarly shuttered window.

More than ever, the gray streaks in her hair seem to now devour her. He would always ask her why his friends’ parents never did but she-she would in turn smile, and say that with each new strand, he would grow taller.

_In the trench, the cantina, the bunker, in the empty moments after blaster bolts and grenades, he wishes more than anything he could pluck those gray hair one by one and see each fear and worry that was plaguing her be slowly crushed between his childish fingers. They were not a sign of blessing or the next step in his foolish dream to grow past his mother’s impressive height, he didn’t even notice the slowly dying fire in her passionate gaze. It only took him three missions and a failed one to know._

In the cold and deathly silence, the chrono switches to 0900 Standard time.

He can’t tell if it is his own voice. But his mother standing up abruptly is enough. The fear holding her arms frozen and eyes locked is palpable, so much so that he winces painfully, an uncomfortable knot twisting in his empty stomach.

He hopes it is the rumble of the clouds. An earthquake perhaps. Anything is better than what he is dreading to hear-a rhythm of sterile boots marching in perfect unison, the distant shout of a soldier who shared the same face as the dozens of hundreds of other troops he commanded.

It is the Republic’s victory after all; any more fighting would lead to the very streets outside his house actually bombarded and in choking flames. He stares hopelessly at his scratched hands from countless stones and shoes thrown at a trooper’s head or in the way of a tank milling through town. What would he do in his free time now?

_“Jeron.”_

His mother’s voice, a skeleton of a hoarse whisper, saying his father’s name as if his answer could possibly overcome the crushing debris of exploded rubble.

Too restless to sit at the table, he dashes to his mother’s side. She peeks through the shutters, parting a crack in the thin veil of security her son couldn’t yet reach. She didn’t need to worry. He always knew what to do, even at an early age-a gift, she realizes with a pang, that could only be given by war. She worries.

From his height, the boy can take a closer view of the source of the chillingly familiar sound.

Even at the early age where he stands-Cassian is rarely surprised.

They weren’t called child soldiers by name, but everyone knew that the youngest generation of orphans and half-orphans never made it to even the front steps of the shelter home. The sight of Republic tanks or soldiers or crumbling buildings don’t startle them. Not anymore.

That morning, it is not just his mother’s heart that drops to her knees.

—

He is still five. His mother is now dead.

Thirty-five Standard. He is relieved, thankful even, that he got to know her for five of those years.

_He doesn’t know it yet, but this is the kindest alignment of stars the galaxy will ever give to him-most only saw the cold suns that burned out long ago. Still, if only it could be a little kinder…_

The boy shivers. Why is everywhere he goes about as warm as an ice planet? The gloves are practically dripping on his frigid hand, losing thread after thread. The tears on his jacket aren’t helping well with keeping the cold out.

But he sobers when he remembers. This is where his mother sent him. This is where she sent him to keep him safe, closing back the hole before the stormtroopers (it still sounds so strange and cold in his mouth) had shot her down-three times for running away when they arrived at the doorstep, two for refusing to turn her only son over into the newly-formed Imperial Academy on Coruscant.

He hasn’t had the time for much crying. Running and the fear of what one is running away from tend to have that particular effect on those lucky few. The boy sometimes has to pause and look around pensively any moment he thinks he hears those footsteps again before realizing it is but his own heartbeat. 

_Still, one has to be careful. Just in case…_

Now he’s somewhere in the mass maze under Fest City known as its sewage system, dripping wet and smelling like a hundred different mechanical oils and droid parts. At least the city builders were kind enough to place artificial lights along the way; he can still easily manage to scrape out what little of the ration he’s managed to swipe from the farmers’ market above him.

Things can be better, but war is no place for ungratefulness.

He is alive, he is breathing, and that is all that matters.


End file.
